


FRESH(ealed)

by zombified_queer



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alien Culture, Domestic Rotan'talag/Weyoun 9, Love Languages, M/M, Tattoos, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 20:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20730590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombified_queer/pseuds/zombified_queer
Summary: It is considered an honor to sit with a Vorta during their tattooing practices. A Jem'Hadar might never see one in his entire life and other Firsts have held their Vorta’s hand and offered words of encouragement for multiple Vorta, multiple iterations of the same. The smallest percentage are allowed input on the Vorta’s decision on a design.Or, four snapshots of Jem'Hadar soothing their Vorta during the tattooing practices.





	FRESH(ealed)

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this tumblr post: https://vortaesthetic (dot) tumblr (dot) com/post/187869965601/the-most-devout-of-vorta-are-absolutely-covered-in

It is considered an honor to sit with a Vorta during their tattooing practices. A Jem'Hadar might never see one in his entire life and other Firsts have held their Vorta’s hand and offered words of encouragement for multiple Vorta.

* * *

For Yelgrun, the ink flows the length of his spine. His Jem'Hadar First finds the Vorta in a state of meditation through the pain. It is impressive how someone so far removed from violence can take a pain like this and appear to be peacefully asleep. Rarely through the procedure, Yelgrun squeezes his First’s hand for comfort. 

When the ink is done and the artist dabs away the excess, the Jem'Hadar recognizes the words. Prayer not for success in the Vorta’s line. Prayer for strength in battle. His First knows Yelgrun never sees combat if the Founders can will it.

One night, weeks after, the Vorta seeks First for comfort and First, knowing the prayer along his Vorta’s spine, traces the healed ink. He remembers how easily the words flow together and he recites the prayer using his Vorta’s skin as his only book.

Yelgrun mumbles in his sleep and buries his face in his First's chest.

* * *

Keevan, ever the rebel, finds himself the tools to inject the ink while Remata'klan watches for Odo’s patrol through the holding cells. It’s not something the Founder would approve of by any means. Remata'klan knows, for a long while yet, they will be outcasts on the station. Spies. Fugitives.

When Keevan swears for the eighth time, Remata'klan takes over, the Vorta listening for the Founder’s steps.

“Doctor Bashir is going to hate this,” Remata'klan murmurs, taking up the crude tools.

“Work faster,” Keevan huffs, upset the needle’s been taken over by steadier hands.

Remata'klan corrects the Vorta’s mistakes and hesitations, drawing an intricate, flowering vine along the outside of Keevan’s thigh. Later, they will laugh and explain in their inking parlour that this was the moment they chose their new careers.

* * *

Borath subjects himself to the ink once. Only once. He finds it a distasteful practice, so he comforts himself that the scientific precision of each shape is no sharp line, but a minute prayer to the Founders. His left shoulder seems covered in mechanical designs and yet there are prayers for guidance, for success, for his successors to rise to stations he cannot even dream of. 

The Jem'Hadar who accompanies him is the lowest of his rank, the bottom of the barrel. This Jem'Hadar is so unused to the affections of Vorta, their trickster whims. He runs fingers through Borath’s curls while the Vorta lays on his belly, eyes wide and watchful. When the needle strikes bone, Borath hisses and finds the Jem'Hadar murmuring soft comforts, soothing the sting as best he can. The Jem'Hadar kisses the top of Borath's head, a transgression.

Borath understands when his First turns up dead and knows exactly who to promote to fill the gap in his ranks.

* * *

Weyoun Nine enters Keevan’s parlour alone. He trembles, fearing just the sound of the tattoo gun. Remata'klan pauses in his work on a Bolian, nods to the Vorta, then finishes his work.

Keevan and Weyoun talk designs. Weyoun Nine brought the photos he’d begged Julian for. Autopsy photos. They’re bad luck, everyone else has told him, and Weyoun knows the shudder that passes through Keevan.

“Please” is all Weyoun has to say.

He gets settled in the chair, left hand extended to Remata'klan’s work. It’s cold, the sterilization, then the gun begins its work, louder than it is painful. It’s no worse than a cat scratch but Weyoun Nine worries his lower lip between his teeth. Remata'klan pats Weyoun’s arm when he’s finished. They move onto the work of Weyoun’s right wrist. When it’s all over, Weyoun Nine feels better.

“Lemme know if you ever want something else.” Keevan winks, flaunting Remata'klan’s name inked by his collarbone.

Weyoun never considered it, but Rotan'talag’s name on his skin would be so intimate as to be inappropriate. It's too forward. It would be like announcing he warms Rotan'talag's bed. Even if they are raising the first free Jem'Hadar together.

And his wrists ache for a day after. Weyoun keeps them wrapped under gauze, not wanting Rotan'talag to see them until they’re healed. Weyoun struggles to pick little Tomak’etan up with the dull pain, but he manages. He's always pushed through things like this, especially for little Tom's sake. The baby seems fascinated by the new texture of the Vorta's wrists, grabbing and chewing until Weyoun offers the baby a proper teething toy or a snack.

When they go to bed, Rotan'talag asks to see the Vorta’s wrists. Weyoun Nine replies that removing his termination implant was a choice. They understand each other in pieces.

Rotan'talag pulls Weyoun into his chest. The Vorta dozes easier with Rotan’talag’s heartbeats to lull him, but he thinks he hears the Jem'Hadar sniffling. Weyoun wonders if Rotan'talag's sick. He hopes not. The last time Tomak’etan was sick it involved so many sleepless nights.

When Rotan'talag sees the healed words upon his Vorta’s wrists for the first time, he kisses the prayer of peace delicately and reverently. The oath of sacrifice, he strikes through with a finger, as if breaking some curse.

Weyoun Nine reminds himself only Jem'Hadar believe in curses.


End file.
